Choice
by reading
Summary: PostAsylum. The brothers deal with the aftermath.


_Choice_

_Yet another look at the Brothers Winchester after Asylum._

_xxxx_

The ride back to the hotel had been completely silent. Almost.

"Dean!" Eyes straight ahead, Dean didn't flinch.

"Dean! Pull over!" The desperation in his brother's voice had Dean jerking the wheel to the right, even as Sam flung the door open, vomiting outside the car before the Impala had skidded to a halt.

The sound of wretching had continued longer that Dean really would have thought possible considering how long it had been since they'd eaten. He'd stared through the front windshield, impassive, hands still on the wheel, until Sam sat up, wiping his mouth with his hand and shutting door. Not saying a word, Dean pulled back onto the road.

Dean had stubbornly refused to acknowledge the glances Sam kept casting in his direction, keeping his eyes resolutely on the road in front of him. _Don't look_, he told himself. _Just don't look_. He'd followed his own instructions until they reached the motel, getting out of the car and trudging wearily across the parking lot to their room. Once inside, he'd gathered fresh clothes and the first aid kit without meeting his brother's eyes, crossing to the bathroom, closing the door gently behind him.

Mission accomplished.

Not allowing himself to think, Dean stripped down and climbed slowly into the shower. Every bit of his body ached, and he let the hot water wash over him, hoping that the heat would soothe not only the contusions on his chest, but also the weariness that seemed to have settled into his bones.

God, he hurt.

Dean stood under the shower, head bowed until the water began to grow tepid. Twisting the knob, he shut off the water, wincing slightly as it shrieked its protest. He stepped from behind the mildewy shower curtain, feeling a little looser than when he'd started. He dried off quickly and pulled on boxers and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms. Grabbing his used towel, he swiped it over the mirror. The best thing to do would be to open the door into the bedroom and let the steam escape. But he didn't want his brother to think it was an invitation. So he left it closed. Closed to the outside air. Closed to Sam.

When he got the mirror cleared, he picked up the first aid kit and faced himself.

The man who returned his gaze was almost unrecognizable. Gone were the cocksure grin, the sardonic gaze, the somber eyes with the hint of self-deprecation—the combination that, working in tandem, had always provided Dean Winchester with the front he presented to the world and often himself.

What he saw shook him. Staring back at him from the reflection were only grief and bewilderment and pain—it was all he had left.

xxxx

Sam sat on the bed and faced the bathroom door.

When they'd come out of the asylum, Sam had told Dean he hadn't meant anything he'd said almost as an afterthought. It had never occurred to Sam that Dean could think otherwise. But, there'd been something in Dean's expression as they were getting in the car that had made the younger man pause. Sam had offered to talk about it, and Dean had closed down, hurt standing out clearly on his face, before he'd ducked into the car. Sam had stood for a moment outside the door, shocked by Dean's reaction. When Dean started the engine, Sam slid quietly into the passenger seat, unsure where to go from here.

_Dean can't believe that I meant all those things. He can't believe that I'd pull the trigger…_

And yet he had. He had pulled the trigger. More than once. With two different kinds of gun. In his mind, Sam replayed the scene in the basement, the look on Dean's face when the shotgun was fired by the hand of his little brother; the pain, the desolation in his eyes, masked quickly, when Sam pulled the trigger of the pistol again and again. _Oh my God._

That right there had been the point at which Sam had tossed all his cookies on the side of the road, while his brother sat silent and unmoved, three feet away.

It had been the silence that had shaken Sam the most. He hadn't expected words of comfort or a soothing hand on his back. But noises of disgust, a meaningless threat if he got any of his puke on the car, would have told him they were OK; that Dean was himself, that Sam had not destroyed the one thing in his life that was solid and safe and sure.

But there had been nothing. Only the sound of tires on gravel, then asphalt as Dean pulled back onto the road.

The rest of the way back to the motel, Sam had wracked his brain for ways to make this right. He had to make Dean understand; he had to make Dean realize that none of what had happened had been Sam.

But Dean had made it clear that he wouldn't talk about what had happened at the asylum. He'd shut Sam out—literally and figuratively—and now, facing the solid door behind which his brother stood, Sam wasn't sure how to fix it.

So, he'd do what he'd always done when he didn't know the next step. He'd wait for his brother.

That was irony, wasn't it? He'd just accused his brother of being the good little soldier, of bossing him around. And yet here Sam was. Wanting nothing more than to have Dean come out of the bathroom and tell him what to do.

Sam swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat. He closed his eyes, and drew his legs up to his chest, pressing his face into his knees. He didn't want to think about what he'd said, what he'd done. But now that he'd gotten it started, he couldn't stop the film as it played in his head. He saw Dean's body jerking back as the round of rock salt hit him square in the chest, heard the sound of the firing pin clicking against the empty chambers of the gun as he pulled the trigger time after time. Sam tightened his grip around his legs, rocking slightly. _Stopstopstopstopstop_.

"Sam."

Sam's head came up sharply. Dean stood in the doorway, pale and hollow-eyed as he watched his brother. He'd pulled on a t-shirt, hiding whatever damage the shotgun blast might have done to his chest.

He looked oddly vulnerable to Sam, almost like a little kid, standing there in his bare feet and wet hair.

Sam stood unsteadily, watching Dean in his turn.

"You hungry?"

_No._ "Sure." Sam stuck his hands in his pockets. "I'll go."

Dean nodded, moving stiffly toward the bed.

"Do you want…?" Sam trailed off. _How are we having this conversation?_

"Whatever."

"Dean…"

"Sam." Dean's voice was grim. _Don't_. Sam almost heard it.

Sam nodded, eyes dropping.

"I'll get whatever."

xxxx

Dean sat on the bed next to his brother's. He wondered vaguely what accounted for the lethargy that had seeped into his movements. He'd been hurt worse than this before. He was bruised like hell, and the abrasions on his chest smarted like a son of a bitch, but none of that accounted for this numbness at his core that made sleep seem like the only viable alternative right now.

He leaned back against the headboard, and then slid down on the bed, curling onto his side. He wrapped his arms gently around his chest and closed his eyes. God, he felt like crap. _Where is Sam?_ Sam would be back, and then Sam… Dean snapped back to awareness. Sam. Sam who had tried to kill him. Sam who had pulled the trigger and called him pathetic. He shuddered, swallowing back nausea the memory triggered.

_Stop it,_ he ordered himself. _Think_, he demanded_. Think._

If he wasn't going to allow himself an Oprah moment, he needed to figure out how he was going to deal with this. Practically. Practically, how was he going to deal with the fact that the little brother he'd lived for hated him and had tried to kill him? Grief started in the pit of his stomach and began to work its way up into his chest, choking him.

_Don't feel. Think._

Before Dean had cut him off, Sam had said that he hadn't meant it, had said that it had been the doctor. But was that true? Could Sam have pulled the trigger so many times and not have felt it on some level? Dean didn't know.

He sighed, rubbing absently at the stinging on his chest. What _did_ he know? How was it possible that he hadn't seen Sam's resentment, his anger? Had he really missed the signs that his brother hated him? He'd thought they were OK, that the kidding and the snarking were just what they did. He'd never thought…

_You're my brother and I'd die for you._

Dean's eyes came open. He expected to see Sam back, he was so sure he'd heard his brother's voice. But Sam wasn't there.

_You're my brother and I'd die for you._ Dean whispered it to himself. Sam had said it so casually, so matter-of-factly. Like it was a given. Dean remembered it so clearly. Could that have been a lie?

_No._

It couldn't have been a lie. It wasn't a lie. Dean knew that it was true. He'd seen it in action more times than he could count. And he wouldn't doubt it now. He chose not to doubt it now.

xxxx

Sam sat at the diner counter. Through the window, he could just make out the motel a couple of blocks down the street, and his eyes strayed there intermittently as he waited.

He'd ordered more food than he knew either of them could or would eat, but he hadn't been able to make a choice about what Dean would want, so he'd ordered pretty much one of everything. Except oatmeal. Neither of them ever wanted oatmeal. Sam could eat whatever Dean wouldn't.

Sam put his head down in his arms. He was so tired.

"Honey?" Sam's head came up. The waitress who'd taken his order was refilling his coffee mug. "You OK?" She asked it gently, her work-weary face kind and genuinely concerned.

Sam tried smiling and nodding, but the doubtful look the woman gave him called "bull-shit," so he shook his head.

"Not really, no," he whispered, turning his attention to his coffee.

"Fight with your girl?"

Sam snorted unbecomingly, smiling slightly in spite of himself. "My brother." He kept his eyes on his coffee cup.

"Must've been a doozy," she said gently. "My boys fight like cats and dogs over most anything and don't blink an eye. But sometimes," she left the sentence hanging.

Sam nodded, halfway hoping she'd move on, but also drawn to the understanding ear.

She put a cinnamon roll on a plate and slit it across the counter next to Sam's mug.

"Even big fights heal, honey. You're brothers. You'll get through it."

Sam picked up the pastry, absently starting to unroll it.

"You don't know what I said, what I…" Sam stopped, throat closing up. She gave him a minute to collect himself. "I don't know how he can forgive me."

"Have you asked him to forgive you?"

Sam shook his head. "He won't let me. Doesn't want to talk about it." The cinnamon roll was disappearing bite by bite between sentences. "I want to try to explain, to tell him that I didn't mean it, that it wasn't me…" He stopped, almost having said too much. He took another bite. He started again. "But he won't listen. He won't even let me start. How can we get past this if he won't let me explain…" He paused, raising miserable eyes to the waitress.

"Maybe he just needs some time. Time to sort things out in his own head before he can talk about it with you. My youngest always needed that. It was hard on his brother, but he learned to give Benny that space."

"Grace!" There was a shout from the kitchen. "Order's up!"

Sam thought through what Grace had said as she walked away, finishing up the cinnamon roll, licking his fingers clean of the last of the icing. Grace moved toward the pass-through window, gathering up the take-out boxes. She stacked the Styrofoam containers and carried them to the counter.

"Peace offering?" she asked with a smile at the number of boxes.

"He wouldn't tell me what he wanted," Sam said ruefully.

"So you got him everything?"

"Yeah." Sam rooted in his pockets, pulling out a wad of bills. Grace felt her heart break a little for the boy in front of her.

"Is he your older brother?" Grace thought he had that little brother vibe about him at the moment. She doubted he gave it off all the time. He was a man grown, after all. But right now, there was something in his expression and his manner that reminded her strongly of her youngest son when he'd done something to hurt or anger one of his older brothers. An anxiety or uneasiness as if nothing could be right with the world if things weren't right with his brother.

Sam was still focused on the money, but he nodded tightly. He'd have just enough.

"Well. If he's anything like my oldest son, he'll come around."

Sam smiled at the woman again, blushing slightly in embarrassment when he realized how he'd rambled on at her.

"Thanks. For listening. And everything."

"You're welcome, honey. Here." She reached under the counter and pulled out a to-go box and putting another cinnamon roll in it.

"Oh, no." Sam tried to stop her. "I don't have any more…"

"This is on the house. For that brother of yours."

"Thanks. Again."

"You take care, hon."

Sam hoisted the bag full of boxes in his hand and left the diner, waving awkwardly as he backed out the door.

On the way back to the motel, Sam turned over in his heads the words Grace had said. _Maybe he just needs some time_. Time. Was that what Dean needed?

He'd never needed it in the past. Had he? Always, when they were kids, if Sam had hurt Dean, done something stupid, all Sam had ever had to do was say he was sorry, demand that Dean listen, understand, forgive. And Dean always had. Always provided that comfort for his little brother. Even when he was hurting still.

Sam didn't want to give his brother time. He wanted Dean to tell him that everything was OK. That he understood that Sam wasn't responsible for the hurtful words, that Sam had not pulled the trigger, had not tried to kill him. Would never…

Sam stopped himself. He wasn't a kid anymore. He was a grown man, with a grown man's duty to take responsibility for his actions.

If Dean needed time, Sam would give him as much as he needed.

xxxx

"Sammy, how much food did you get?" Dean rooted through the bags that Sam had deposited on the bed next to his brother.

"Are these blueberry pancakes?" The delight in Dean's voice made Sam smile.

"Yeah. There's syrup in here somewhere." He was digging through another of the bags. "Here." He handed over the little plastic cup.

Dean passed containers of eggs and bacon and hashbrowns to Sam and the brothers spent the next several minutes in an oddly comfortable silence as they made their way steadily through the bags of food. Dean hadn't realized how hungry he was until Sam had entered the room with breakfast.

"Dude. Did you eat all the sausage?" Dean was a little offended.

"No, man." Sam tossed a box across the small space between their beds.

Dean caught it, and looked contemplatively at his brother. Sam met Dean's eyes briefly before he dropped his head to his breakfast, bangs falling over his eyes as he avoided Dean's gaze.

In the same way both boys avoided oatmeal, the brothers believed that sausage was a delicacy to be enjoyed, to be savored, to be hoarded and hidden from one's brother and never, ever to be shared without some sort of violence. Sam's giving up of the sausage was a bad sign.

The silence stretched out as Dean ate the sausage. The fact that he knew the only reason he'd gotten the sausage so easily was because Sam felt guilty didn't mean Dean was above enjoying it. He finished it off and licked his fingers appreciatively.

"Sam. I know it wasn't you."

Sam looked up, surprised.

"I know that you would never try to kill me." Dean said it seriously. "OK? Don't make this more than it is."

"Dean."

"Look." If he was going to be forced into a Moment, Dean was going to be in control of it. "I'm not saying that I think there wasn't _some_ truth in the things that you said. I know you're frustrated and pissed at Dad. And you're mad at me by extension. I get it." Man, did he get it. He'd been putting up with Sam's flare ups of anger for weeks now. And it was beginning to piss _him_ off. His voice started to warm.

"But, you know what, little brother, I'm pissed, too. Did you know I called him? When you were having those visions and wanted us to go home? I called him and I _begged_ him, Sammy. I begged him to come. Because I didn't know what to do and because I was scared for you." Dean laughed harshly. "And you know how that worked out." He rubbed his hands over his eyes, feeling a headache starting there.

"So don't think I don't have _issues_ with Dad right now. I do. But, I don't know what else to do. I don't know what else to do except follow the next set of coordinates and look for him and hope that some day he'll be there. I just… As much as I hate what he's done, I have to trust that he knows what he's doing. I have to trust that, Sam."

"And if that makes me a 'good little soldier' and 'pathetic,'" Dean's voice broke almost imperceptibly on the word, "then so be it."

Dean looked across the room to the mirror hanging on the wall. He could see Sam in the reflection, watching him.

"Dean, I'm sorry." Sam's voice was quiet. Dean glanced briefly at his brother, lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

"Dean…"

"Sam, it's OK."

"No, Dean. You need…"

Dean got up stiffly from the bed gathering up their discarded food boxes, turning his back on his brother. "Sam, I said it's OK. I forgive you." He started lobbing wadded up take-out containers toward the trashcan, ignoring Sam's determination to force the issue. "You're such a chick sometimes…"

"Dean!" Sam raised his voice to a shout. "If you don't listen to me now, I swear to God that the next place we come to that has a town square, I will tie you down on the steps of the courthouse and say all this in public."

Dean glared at his brother, weighing the likelihood of that happening. The truth was, Dean wasn't exactly sure he could take his little brother in a fight any more. Not if Sam was really determined. In the four years he'd been gone, Sam had grown _another_ impossible two inches and filled out as well. He was no longer the gangly, awkward teenager who'd been all knees and elbows—and for awhile ears and nose—that Dean had routinely pinned to the ground—just because—even after the kid had gotten a couple of inches on him. Sam had become a remarkably solid, surprisingly graceful man, who Dean had to acknowledge might actually be able to best him now despite Dean's additional years and experience.

_Crap._

"Fine." He sat back down on the bed. Sam eased down across from him.

"I don't think you're pathetic," Sam said softly.

Dean felt his heart stutter. Damn Sam for knowing that had been the word that had cut the deepest.

"I could never think that about you. Never. I just… I think maybe I'm jealous."

Sam's mouth quirked up in a sad semblance of a smile. "I'm jealous of your faith."

Dean was confused. "I don't understand."

"Your belief in Dad. Your faith that he hasn't just abandoned us, isn't just stringing us along for some strange reason only he knows." Sam's eyes were searching. "I don't understand how you do it."

Dean looked across at Sam. He could see on his brother's face the exhaustion, the hopelessness that was wearing him down, defeating him more surely than the demons they fought.

Dean gave him the only answer he could.

"Sometimes you have to choose to believe."

The boys stared at each other, caught between hope and despair, between faith and unbelief.

Watching his brother, Sam nodded. And chose.

_The End._


End file.
